THE ISRAELITE
Desmond Dekker
Get up in the morning slaving for bread sir,
So that every mouth can be fed,
Poor, poor me-Israelite
My wife an' ma kids dem pack up an'a leave me,
"Darling," she said, "I was yours to be seen."
Poor, poor me-Israelite
Shirt dem a tear-up trousers a go,
I don't wan' to end up like Bonnie and Clyde,
Poor, poor me-Israelite
After a storm there must be a calm,
You catch me in your farm, you sound your alarm,
Poor, poor me-Israelite